


Call From The Grave

by Lydia_Pickled_Herring



Category: Darkthrone, Until the Light Takes Us (2008)
Genre: Alcoholism, Depression, Gen, Hidden Relationships, I make fun of everybody because I love them, I suck at tags, Is 'douchebag characters' a tag?, Loneliness, M/M, Panic Attacks, Unintentional slash, car crashes, non-linear storytelling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-10
Updated: 2018-06-10
Packaged: 2019-05-20 08:57:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,103
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14891537
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lydia_Pickled_Herring/pseuds/Lydia_Pickled_Herring
Summary: Inspired by the interview in which NC says that Zephyrous left due to feeing left out because of his and Fenriz's close friendship.





	Call From The Grave

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted on RF but also posted here because I've had this account for 6 months and haven't posted anything. Versions are slightly different due to my laziness with formatting.
> 
> I didn't mean for Dag/Ivar to become a thing but it sort of did.
> 
> Originally they said that Ivar left because he wandered into the forest and never returned but that was obviously full of shit.
> 
> Ivar did end up getting into a car crash due to his drinking problems.
> 
> Title and lyrics ripped off of Bathory.
> 
> It goes without saying that I don't actually mean the criticism I wrote in this.

  
The fog is creeping up the horizon, sweeping across the forest. Ivar takes a deep breath, sipping his coffee as he slowly blinks away sleep.

He lives on the outskirts of Oslo, near a dense forest; his old, dilapidated Nike sneakers sink into the cold mud. Breathing in the evergreens and birch sap, sometimes Ivar wishes he could just go into the forest and never come back out...

 

  
.

So, Ted was sorry that he and Gylve were a no-show at the bar last night. That's alright, there was apparently an awkward situation involving Gylve, a month old pizza and enough Tylenol to permanently damage his liver. Sounds gnarly to be honest. Ivar's pretty glad they didn't call.

“Sorry, man.” Gylve groans, crashing down on the couch, which is also pretty old, rank and has this fugly hydrangea pattern on it. He clutches his stomach and burps loudly, hanging his head off of the cushions with a groan.

“It’s cool, dude.” Ivar shrugs, honestly he could care a lot less than he really does. He gives the bare minimum of fucks when really he could be giving none. He watches as Ted pushes Gylve’s oily brown hair out of his face and gauges the temperature of his forehead with the palm of his hand.

“He’s burning up.” Ted says, his tone exasperated as Ivar rolls his eyes at the sheer _retardation_.

“Do you have some kinda mental illness that makes you think eating month old pizza is a good idea?” Ivar asks, crossing his arms after he tucks his guitar back at its post. Gylve responds with a warbled moan and a:

“Fuck yeah I do, it’s called _poverty_ , man.” He swishes his arms through the air pointedly as Ted pets his forehead like he’s a pitiful kitten. His face is all exasperation though.

 

.

Ivar’s starting to hate living in this city, which is humorous since he lives in the least populated part of it. He didn’t mind it at first but now that all these guys were creeping in here, creating a record store and practically a breeding ground for black metal. Ivar's getting a little sick of the same old shit.

It’s all black hair, black clothes and man-asses in leather that’s way too tight. It’s getting sort of soulless and ironic. Black metal started off as misanthropic and then ended up a sausage fest, just seeing who can chug the most beer and freak out the most girls. Gylve’s sorta into it now, he likes going out to the bar and having fun and lately it seems like Ted’s into whatever Gylve’s into. Who cares though?

Ivar’s made correspondence with this bloke named Vidar who lives in Bø, and Vidar says that his old bandmates just moved to Oslo too. It’s like flies to fucking shit, man.

They’re all flocking to Oslo, or Bergen, and Ivar’s starting to think that wherever the people are is where he doesn’t want to be.

 

.

Ivar crosses his arms.

“Give me your shoulder, man.” Gylve groans, his skin a sickly shade of green. His undereyes make him look like he just got knocked out at the boxing ring and that little string of dried up drool doesn't help.

“No fucking way, dude. Gross.” Ivar furrows his eyebrows, scooting away from this zombie named Gylve.

They’re on the bus home. They take the same line but Ted always gets off two stops in, Gylve— four, and Ivar takes it all the way to the terminal station and then crosses the river to get back home.

Gylve wails like a banshee, his wiry limbs limp as people turn their heads to glare at the metalheads being archetypally strange.

Ted leans closer to Gylve with a sigh, letting Gylve plonk his head down. He makes another warbled noise, his shoulders slack. He smells bad too, like vomit and month old pizza but Ivar’s probably just imagining that old pizza note.

They pass Ted’s stop but he still doesn’t get off, it’s an unspoken agreement that Ted’s gonna go home and play mommy to Gylve.

So, Gylve’s kinda annoying, they used to be good friends but they’re sort of not anymore. He’s too expressive, too awkwardly social. They got along better when Gylve didn't feel like he and Ted needed to be joined at the fuckin' hip like Siamese twins.

He’s always liked Ted more—and Dag, _especially_ Dag.

Dag left 'cause he said that black metal wasn’t for him, and come to think of it? Maybe black metal isn’t for Ivar either.

Gylve and Ted get off at his stop. Gylve leans even closer to Ted, who has an arm secured around his waist, helping him move around like the puppeteer. Ted leans into whisper something in Gylve’s ear and Ivar wonders what they’re talking about only for a good half a second.

He leans his head on the plexiglass window; cold from the early November weather. His breaths make the sheet fog up and as he closes his eyes he realizes that there's no one waiting for him when he gets home. No phone calls, no friends, no nothin'.

He has a bottle of vodka and a TV and that's about it.

 

  
.

“Why do you wanna leave?” Ivar asks, sitting down on Dag’s porch. Dag’s chilling there, rolling a wad of hardened chewing gum into a sphere. The question makes his shoulders drop instantly, eyes wide as if he can’t fucking believe how many times he’s gotta repeat it.

“’Cos it’s just not fuckin’ _me_ , man. I’m no black metaller and I don’t wanna be no fuckin’ black metaller either.” He snaps, bending his knees up to his chest like it's a shield. He’s in loose blue jeans and a t-shirt he nicked from Ivar, Ivar was kinda hoping for it back but now seems like a shitty time to ask.

“’m not tryna dog at you. Honestly just curious.” Ivar defends. The news came to him last in the form of a side-comment made by Gylve about how Dag’s a pussy and a fake. Ivar thought it was just ‘cos he didn’t show up at the shelter they rehearse at but later on Ted told him —in a much nicer but still quite sardonic way— that Dag’s decided that black metal can go fuck itself with the cross of Christ.

“You didn’t call.” He tells him.

Dag becomes a little bit more humble. “I’ve been meaning to, Ivar, but I’m pissed right the fuck off.” He mumbles, pulling out a thread on the frayed hem of his jeans.

“Gylve won’t stop bitching, like the guy can’t imagine that somebody could possibly have a different taste of music than his. I like death metal, alright? I signed up to play in a death metal band with my friends. I don’t give a shit about Mayhem, don’t give a single flying fuck about ‘em. If you’re gonna try telling me that I’m wrong then you can just get the fuck out of my face too, Ivar!" Dag suddenly goes defensive again, pointing out to where Ivar came from as Ivar hugs his knees closer, mimicking Dag. He pokes his finger out to get a hold of the ball, rolling it around the wooden porch.

He sighs, “Nah… I’m not here to tell you you’re full of shit, man. But that’s it? You’re just not feeling it anymore?”

There a pause and some residual awkwardness,

“I’m not feeling it anymore, yeah.” Dag nods slowly, looking into his house. He spots his mother and calls out for her.

“Yes, baby? Oh, hello there, Ivar.” She says, hair still in curlers as she rests a hand on her hip.

Dag’s a lucky shit, his mother’s fucking hotter than fires of hell. He mumbles a small hello, his face instantly going red as Dag asks,

“Can we have pizza for dinner, mom?"

“Sure.” She shrugs after a minute of consideration.

“Unless you don’t want pizza.” Dag says, nodding at Ivar. "Or to stay over."

“Nah, Pizza sounds good right now.” Ivar shakes his head. He doesn't wanna be a douchebag.

Once she leaves, Dag gets the look like he’s contemplating whether or not he should say what he wants to say next.

He takes a deep breath before opening his mouth again:

“Do you ever get the vibe like it's Ted and Gylve who run this show and we’re just the background guys?” He asks, leaning in for secrecy. Their eyes meet and Ivar shrugs. He does sometimes.

Sometimes they don't invite them places, don't wanna hang with no one but themselves. Maybe it's 'cos Ted's the only one who's cool with Gylve doing 'grim' things like cutting his wrists. Only Satan knows why at this point.

“Sorta.”

“I’m sick of that too, and all the shit Gylve talks. They’re like fuckin’ homos, man.” Dag spits, flipping hair out of his face.

Ivar doesn’t respond, kinda out of loyalty and 'cos it’s a shitty thing to say about them. He looks down at their feet, smiling ruefully at the way Dag’s pinky toe pokes itself out of a hole in his sock.

He wiggles it with a small trill when he notices Ivar zoning out on it.

“I still wanna play with you, man.” Ivar sighs slapping his palms against the wood and leaning back. That was why he got Dag in to begin with. They like jamming together and Dag wanted a death metal band. Ivar just so happened to know one.

“Then play with me, theres no rule in this goddamn world that states that just ‘cos youre still fuckin’ with those two, you and I can’t do our own little thing.” Dag says firmly, laying his head against his knobby kneecap. “Unless you start talking shit about me too, in that case, I don’t want a single thing to do with you.” He scoffs but Ivar swears he's way cooler than that.

Dag moves outta the city real soon after they do _A Blaze in The Northern Sky_ though, so that falls through pretty quick.

 

  
.

Ivar kind of, sort of, totally fucking hates Helvete once he begins hanging around it long term.

He hates the atmosphere, the panache, the peacocking teens wearing corpsepaint and leather jackets nicked off their fathers. Gylve quickly gets a job working inventory there and he and Ted find even more common ground in their mutual dislike of Varg Vikernes.

“He’s such a fuckin’ pansy.” Ivar scoffs, sitting on the top of the staircase with Ted, his legs swung off of the edge where a hand rail should be but isn’t. Some fucker got drunk and ripped it off.

They're watching people assimilate around the shop, some of them wearing corpse paint in broad fuckin' daylight, “Looks like the type of bloke who acts all big and bad until he gets caught, then he bends over and takes it up the arse by an African.”

“Tch, yeah.” Ted snorts, resting his arms against his knees as he smokes a cigarette irately. Lately Gylve’s been all over Varg like beetles to dung and Ivar agrees with Ted that if on the off chance he chooses to go to the bar, he sees Varg, he too will burn down Helvete.

Hell, he'll supply the kerosene and the matches.

"Someone just off the motherfucking _faggot_ already." Ted whispers venomously and that's the first time Ivar's ever heard Ted be so... _harsh_. Must be all the drinking he's been doing.

Varg Vikernes isn’t the most annoying person at Helvete though. That award actually goes to Bård Guldvik Eithun the first and hopefully the last.

“What’s with that shirt?” He asks, his voice annoyingly slow in characteristics. He sounds like a retard hyped up on Xanax and Ivar feels his brain cells start to melt to goop.

“You look like such a life-metaller.”

“Whats with that fucking face?” Ivar counters, crossing his arms. He wears this flannel shirt almost every 'cos it's warm and could probably survive nuclear fission. Apparently it's an unpopular fashion choice. 'Cos for some reason people around here really care about fashion.

Well, Ivar found it for real dirt cheap back when they were staying with Entombed for the recording of Soulside.

Bard purses his lips, “Ooh, good one. You sure got me there.” He says sarcastically, reaching up to pinch the fabric.

“Ditch it. You’re too cool to dress like such a fuckin’ poser.” And Ivar swats his hand away.

Bård wants to be friends with literally everyone and almost everybody wants to be friends with Bård. It's weird, 'cos Ivar thinks that Bård is like that girl in secondary school who dreams about blowing everyone on the sports team... at once.

You know what? Ivar thinks same could be said about the rest of Emperor as well.

Ihsahn looks like a literal homo, dresses like a literal homo, sounds like a fucking homo. He and Samoth probably like to do Lord of The Rings sex role-play together.

Samoth used to be pretty cool but then he took a vow of silence. Now when he does actually speak he calls years ‘anno’ and usually says something pig-headed about how 'great' he is. Samoth is just Tomas backwards with an added H so Ivar thinks he needs to get off his high horse.

Håvard is alright though; he and Ivar go out to drink 'cos no one else drinks as heavy as them. Håvard doesn’t like the rest of them too, especially not Bård, so there's common ground there. They’re united by hate in true black metal style.

Come to think of it, same could be said of Varg. He looks like a fruity piece of shit too and his music sounds like television static, chainsaws and a little but of pretentious, holier-than-thou world music.

Satyricon as well. Frost looks like a girl with bad plastic surgery, Satyr looks like a down syndrome baby that survived a chemical spill. They sound like The Hobbit got raped in the ass lubeless by black metal LARPers.

Enslaved suck, Burzum really sucks. Even Mayhem sucks now that Dead's rotting six feet under and Necrobutcher wants nothing to do with the lot of them. They all suck and Ivar’s pretty sure Euronymous is a literal homosexual.

So, when Ivar really thinks about it, he has no idea why he still sticks around.

 

  
.

Sometimes when Ivar feels particularly glum, he likes to lie down on the forest floor and listen to some good shit on his Walkman. He can feel the forest’s pulse beneath his skin— it's life on his. His eyes closed as he listens to Bathory, the wailing guitars and Quorthon's rasp:

_Lowered down in the moistened ground_  
Into the dark and cold  
My heartbeat the only sound  
Pain tears my limbs and soul

When the track ends Ivar keeps his eyes closed, too ‘one with nature’ to bother replacing or restarting the disk. There are birds flying overhead, circling like vulture, the sounds of leaves rustling, the wind above him. He takes a deep breath, feeling the stillness as he floats down a river of nothingness. He just is in this moment.

Suddenly that’s not good and Ivar shoots up with something thumping up his chest and throat like he’s about to vomit.

He gasps for air. His eyebrows crease as he places a palm at his chest to feel the way his heartbeat thumps madly.

The feeling persists for five minutes until it finally calms down. It returns a few hours later and this time lasts until Ivar takes a shot of Jack. It goes away again and comes back the next day but goes away eventually. Then it comes back the next day and then the next, until there isn’t enough alcohol on this planet to stop this feeling from going away.

It never seems to go away anymore.

 

  
.

The doctors tell him he’s lucky to be alive and his family tell him that he’s a disappointment. So, essentially, it would be better if he crashed into that tree just a little harder.

Gylve’s mumbling about him being a fucking idiot whilst Ted sits there and tries to make things a little cheerier as Ivar becomes increasingly aware that he's hooked up to an IV line,

He closes his eyes and fades out. It’s all just dogshit to him anyway.

 

 

.

“You came.” Ivar says hoarsely as Dag winds up in his hospital room the next time he can keep consciousness for longer than two minutes.

“’Course I came, man. Ted called me up saying you crashed and I was like, ‘Woah, gotta check out and see if Ivar’s okay.’”

He looks just about the same, wearing a bootleg Voivod sweater as he takes a wooden chair and drags it to the bedside with an annoying, squeaky drag.

“Do I look okay?” Ivar snorts, flinching at the sound as he holds up his bruised limbs.

He still doesn’t remember quite how he got himself into this mess but apparently a copious ammount of alcohol was involved. Ivar joked to his father that winning the world record for highest blood alcohol level was totally an accomplishment, his mother began crying and now they were threatening to cut him off financially. He tries not to think of that too much though.

Dag responds with:

“You remind me of that Doors song ‘I’m Horny, I’m Stoned.’” He grins wickedly as Ivar attempts to roll his eyes.

“I brought books for you, dude.” He rummages in his rucksack, singing a jaunty tune as he holds them up.

“ _Folk og røvere i Kardemomme by_ and _Karius og Baktus._ Haha, you’re really funny.” Ivar deadpans as Dag flips open to the first page,

“No, I’m being for real! They're the ones I had as children and I read them whenever I feel like shit.” He’s not but okay, Ivar listens as Dag carefully reads through both books, flopping himself over the hospital bed to read the second one. His Adidas high tops kick out at the wall, reading sloppily in a song-song voice as Ivan registers it as, god knows how or why, music.

He stays until the nurses kick him out and comes back the next day.

 

 

.

“Soooooo...You’re not gonna show me Helvete?” Dag asks sarcastically as Ivar limps down the sidewalk with him.

He’s finally been allowed out of the hospital for a few hours so Dag decided to take him out into town. To catch up and to get some fresh air.

“No. They’ll kill you the moment you step on their 'turf.'” Ivar scoffs bitterly, shoving his hands in his jean pockets as the wind beats through his greasy hair. He takes a deep breath and sighs, noting that he feels a little better. “Morbid Angel or get the fuck out with these guys...” He mumbles to Dag, or maybe just himself.

Good ol' Dag doesn’t question him more on it, unlike most of these wankers he actually knows when to keep his trap shut. They go to a record store to check out some new releases as per Dag's suggestion— as the town he now resides in doesn't have that impressive of a catalogue.

"It's all just dad-rock and Madonna—blergh."

Ivar watches his back as they enter the store, the bell clicking overhead. Euronymous enjoys acting like buying from another record store is sacrilege and punishable by death. He wouldn’t be surprised if Bård and the rest of the Black Metal Ninjas —the correct term is ‘Black Metal Mafia’ or even ‘Black Circle’ but Black Metal Ninjas is more accurate— were setting up camp outside of every record store to weed out the 'traitors' and 'posers'.

Ironically though, Helvete doesn’t even have licensing rights to Darkthrone’s stuff. Probably ‘cos Peaceville hates ‘True Norwegian Black Fuckin' Metal, man’ and Helvete by association. Hah.

They pick their ways through the Metal and Punk category.

“It’s such a bullshit record.” Dag says once he spots A Blaze in the Northern Sky in the bin, holding it up with a half-smile and crinkled nose.

Ivar, somewhat irately, wonders how Dag can say that about something he worked hard on. “Whatever, man.” He shrugs, his eyes falling on an Immolation record.

“You look fuckin’ sick on the cover though, I’ll give you that.” Dag nods approvingly, putting the vinyl back in its subsection as they migrate towards the electronic music category.

As they're walking through the narrow space, Ivar almost trips over the frayed hem of his jeans. Dag catches him with a laugh before suddenly bear hugging him in the middle of the record store. In broad fuckin’ daylight. As if Ivar didn’t look weird enough already.

“What’s this about?” He mumbles, hugging him back awkwardly as Dag rests his head on his shoulder with a sigh. He gives him a firm squeeze:

“I am really, really fucking glad that you’re alright man.” And for the first time in a while, Ivar doesn't feel like he's completely fuckin' alone in this concrete wasteland.

 

 

  
.

Apparently if Ivar doesn’t join black metal house parties he’s effectively staging a mutiny against his own band. Right now he’s stuck between Ihsahn —His Christian name is Vegard, right?— and the fat one from Enslaved as some slut does a shitty table dance to Hellhammer.

Ihsahn’s bitching to whoever’ll listen about the godddamn artistry of Diamanda Galás, an idea he no doubt picked up from Euronymous like the rest of these soggy, brain-dead fucks.

Why is he even here? Ted and Gylve came together so Ivar's only saw them once. No one really comes up to talk to him and the one who do, Ivar wishes would get run over by Soviet tank.

After enough time and enough beers, he decides to go find Ted and Gylve to tell them he’s gonna jet.

Ivar's head is dizzy, like the blood rushing to his brain gets stuck somewhere along the way. He's stumbling across the corridors with that sick feeling still bubbling up in his throat. It thumps harder than the drums and bass, his wrists cold but his face hot.

Ivar finds them behind the house. He believes they’re whispering at first but Ted’s hands are clutching Gylve’s face like the apocalypse is nigh.

'What the fuck?' He thinks, his jagged fingernails pressed against the time-softened decaying wood of the door frame.

"I love you."

"I love you too, like fuckin' _crazy_."

It’s obvious on closer look that their mouths are mushed together and its not ‘cos Gylve needs CPR. Although Ivar’s probably gonna need it soon.

Gylve moves in closer, wrapping his arms tighter around Ted’s waist with the latter pushing him into the wall. He grunts softly, kissing the side of Ted's jaw before going back in for his lips.

In hindsight now it all makes perfect sense! Ted and Gylve are fags! That explains everything! Why they never invite him places! Why they never ask him before making important decisions!

It's 'cos his friends are fucking _faggots_!!

But still, Ivar stumbles back home, pours himself another three shots from his own personal collection, and swears to God, Buddha, Allah, fuckin' _Odin_ that its all just an alcohol-fueled nightmare....

 

  
.

“You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me!” Gylve snaps as Ted puts a placating hand on his elbow.

“Nope, I kid you not.” Ivar snorts, feeling a tad belligerent tonight.

“I’m sick of Helvete, I’m fuckin' sick of Oslo.” He repeats with a scoff. They’re sitting in a bar way after Ivar actually got himself the house and Gylve looks like he’s going to poke his eyes out with an icepick.

“Sorry but for me it just doesn’t work out anymore.” He shrugs, feeling completely unapologetic.

Gylve opens his mouth to speak but Ted cuts in before he can:

“That’s alright, we understand. This shit doesn't really work out if not everyone's feeling it.”

“Good, I’ll finish the album and I’ll just get the fuck outta here, I guess.” Ivar shrugs, for some reason having expected that to be just a little bit harder. Dag got more shit from it, even Anders who left to join a teachers college got more shit for it.

He tells himself that it's easier this way though.

Looking down at his own glass of water, Ivar's eyes trail to Ted’s shot of jack as he feels it. That familiar feeling clawing back up his throat, he swallows it down with his fuckin' H2O and pretends that it tastes like beer.

He thinks for a second before saying:

“Just tell them I wandered into the forest and never came back.”

  
—end

 


End file.
